…about a symbol

No one thought the little box would mean much. It was just a place to leave lost and found objects. The random glove, a hat, a paperback book that had been left on a bench in the quad. And it didn’t mean much until the girl with the blonde hair left the note.

Red construction paper, neatly printed in “missing dog” style: Lost my will to live. Reward for some reason to go on.

From that first note the box took on new meaning. Sure, the blackberry people, their thumbs tapping furiously ignored the box. So did the iPod people as they bobbed along to rhythms only they could hear. But for many the box became their focus, the center solid in a world that had gone runny, a world where nothing was sure. In the end the box became the reason to live. That’s why the fire was so devastating.